


‘Investments’

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Older Characters, Plotty, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The World’s Most Powerful Wizard suffers from severe magical imbalances and rapid-fire mood swings—similar to his mood after his godfather’s decease many years prior and not the best situation for a Chief Auror to discover himself in, responsible as he is for the safety of the Wizarding world. Fortunately, there’s an Advisor with a solution handy. More fortunately (maybe), there is one single lone precedent for coping with exactly that sort of dire situation. Unfortunately, his affliction effectively kyboshes his lifelong dream of being the best Auror ever. Harry finds himself bundled off in shockingly short order, shot straight into a lateral career move in the Ministry’s super-super secret Black Ops division and straight into a pair of ‘good hands and true’ (manicured to an inch of a cuticle, yes, but ever so true)—or so all his real friends swear to him. It is no coincidence at all those hands are the personal property of one Draco Malfoy, the World’s Second Most Powerful Wizard. It is no coincidence, either, the blasted man’s still just as devilishly attractive to Harry as ever he was before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ReSet

**Author's Note:**

> * …All section headings are key concepts culled from Luna Lovegood’s acclaimed but distinctly unusual self-help manual, Possible Signposts For A Lovely Life, Or, How One Repels Nargles, Blithering Humdingers and Wrackspurts Daily.

**Author:** tigersilver  
 **Recipient:** [](http://oldenuf2nb.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://oldenuf2nb.livejournal.com/)**oldenuf2nb** , for her original, unposted because replaced, gift from me.  
 **Title:** ‘Investments’  
 **Pairing(s):** Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Justin/Ginny, Albus Severus/Scorpius, past Harry/Ginny, past Draco/Astoria  
 **Summary:** The World’s Most Powerful Wizard suffers from severe magical imbalances and rapid-fire mood swings—similar to his mood after his godfather’s decease many years prior and not the best situation for a Chief Auror to discover himself in, responsible as he is for the safety of the Wizarding world. Fortunately, there’s an Advisor with a solution handy. More fortunately (maybe), there is one single lone precedent for coping with exactly that sort of dire situation. Unfortunately, his affliction effectively kyboshes his lifelong dream of being the best Auror ever. Harry finds himself bundled off in shockingly short order, shot straight into a lateral career move in the Ministry’s super-super secret Black Ops division and straight into a pair of ‘good hands and true’ (manicured to an inch of a cuticle, yes, but ever so true)—or so all his real friends swear to him. It is no coincidence at all those hands are the personal property of one Draco Malfoy, the World’s Second Most Powerful Wizard. It is no coincidence, either, the blasted man’s still just as devilishly attractive to Harry as ever he was before.  
 **Rating:** NC-17

  
 **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.  
 **Warning(s):** None this Author can think of, really. Unless the reader suffers from a core magical imbalance.  
 **Epilogue compliant?** Yes, to a point, in that all NextGen Potters and Malfoys are in existence. Other than that, no, not really.  
 **Word Count:** 23, 000, plus some, because now revised, as I can. Apologies, my lovely Betas. I am likely undoing your good work!  
 **Author's Notes:** * …All section headings are key concepts culled from Luna Lovegood’s acclaimed but distinctly unusual self-help manual, Possible Signposts For A Lovely Life, Or, How One Repels Nargles, Blithering Humdingers and Wrackspurts Daily.  
My very dear oldenuf2nb, you have provided me with so very many hours of pleasure, in so many ways, and I must thank the Mods for bestowing upon humble me the honour of writing a tale for you. Especially upon the occasion of this final year of the beloved hd_holidays Fest. I hope these silly signposts lead you to a whole sleigh-load of smiles and this tale allows you the chance to quaff deep from a full-to-brimming wassail bowl of good cheer, sufficient for all the year through. A very merry, safe and joyful holiday season to you and yours. Best wishes for an awesome New Year to come! And my own heartfelt thanks and holiday wishes to my lovely Betas, B and D, from this grateful Author, and also (of course!) to the Mods, past and present, for all they have done, lo, these many years. You people are awesome! All further errors are strictly mine own.  


 

  


**Chapter One: Re-Set***

“What’s this, now? You’re _not_ serious!”

“Harry.” Auror Ronald Weasley leveled a long, steady look at the be-cloaked and mildly bewildered man seated next to him. “Harry, don’t make _me_ be the one. Listen to our Justin, mate. Let him do his job.”

“Yes, alright,” Harry Potter, Chief Auror, buried his dark head dolefully in his hands, rubbing wearily at his famous brow, ruffling his  sleeked-down hair into a fine broth of inky tumbles. “Fine, fine.” His mien was as coolly professional as it ever was when he raised his chin a moment later to face the calmly placid person of his department’s Advisor.  “You called me in here. Well, Justin?”

“Yes, Harry?”  The gentleman seated opposite him provided him a very professional and quite concealing smile. Potter frowned instantly, deeply suspicious.

“You’re my  Advisor—do it, then, what it is you do.  What’s the _real_ next step? What’s my bad news?”

“All right, Harry.” Finch-Fletchley heaved a sigh. “But…I wasn’t joking, I’m afraid. You’ll probably not like it, but it’ll be the best for you, really.”

“Justin!” Potter barked. “Just get _on_.”

Justin Finch-Fletchley, a kindly-mannered, handsomely-featured Wizard, kitted out in a pleasing shade of baby blue and bearing the badge worn proudly by all the Minister’s Especial Advisors corps, sat up sharply in his seat and leant forward in a confiding, convivial manner, one he may’ve only needed to work slightly hard at cultivating, being the generally genial chap he was known to be. He gently waved a scroll of creamy parchment, freshly scooped from a small pile of similar scrolls, stacked tightly rolled and gaudily be-ribboned before him within  a snappy leather-clad  case.  With a flourish,  he handed the one straight over to the scowling Chief Auror, who took it gingerly, as one might when accepting a noxiously acidic Potion, bubbling over.

“Harry…” Auror Weasley muttered softly. “Easy now, old man. Temper, temper.”

“Shut it, Ron,” Potter snapped. “Justin?” He unrolled his new Advisor’s Advice with a neat shake and promptly examined it, beetle-browed.

“Okay. Here. It’s Black Ops, actually. That’s where we all think is best.” The Advisor waggled his brows at the appropriately solidly dark-hued ribbon that had been wound tightly round  the Chief’s  particular scroll. “Black, eh? Hence the riband, yeah? And it’s effective immediately, Harry. And?”

“And?” Potter seemed highly unimpressed with the ribbon, the contents of the scroll and life in general. “So?”

“It’s not so shabby at all, really, where you’re going; more a bit of a plum assignment. Plus, fact of the matter is, it’s a pretty obvious lateral move for you, Harry, in your, er, ah…ahem.” Finch-Fletchley coughed gently. “Condition. And…?” He waggled his eyebrows winningly. “There’s precedent. Excellent precedent.”

“Precedent? You’re joking me.” Potter sent the man a scathing glance of disbelief . “There’s some other poor sod like me out there? I find that hard to believe. Who?” He adjusted his specs, re-scanning it silently, eyes moving rapid-fire behind thin silver frames and concealing lenses. But the dual sheen of  crystal did little to hide the sparks of very real ire building. “ _Who_ in the bloody hell has had this happen before me, Justin? I’ve heard no rumours, seen no sign.”

Potter’s lips folded up into a fine line of disbelieving derision.

“It’s bosh, saying that.”

“Malfoy, that’s who,” his Advisor replied promptly, determinedly pleasant. “Draco Malfoy, your old pal from Auror Division, okay?” Seated by  his boss, Weasley  twiddled his thumbs, indicating by body language Finc-Fletchley was treading on thin ice indeed and had best take good care.  “Right, right!” Finch-Fletchly hurried on hastily, amping up the degree of his most pleasant smile. “Yes, it’s Malfoy, and he’s to be your counsellor and mentor all through the briefing programme, my friend, so I do hope you two rub along well enough still.”

“Malfoy!“ Potter snorted.  “He’s hardly _my_ old anything, Justin. Where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, but they do, mate.” Taling advantage of Finch-Fletchley’s momentary silence, Auror Weasley sniggered, sitting back at his ease, face alight with a wide teasing grin. He looked from one man to the other, clearly stuffing back mirth.  “Mores the pity. Those two  bonded years ago, over Seeker coaching in the League when all the kids were but little tykes. Was a bit pathetic, really.” He twisted his lips wryly. “How well they managed. And a bit amusing, too. They were inseperable for quite some time there.  You should’ve been ‘round to see it, Justin. Brothers-in-arms they were, but not really. Brothers-on-brooms, more like. Was a hoot, just to see. If I’d not been there myse;f, I’d’ve never known they absolutely despised one another back at school.”

“A…hoot?” Finch-Fletchley blinked his confusion. “A _hoot_. Well. All right. Good. Great. All the better.” He waved a hand. “For our purposes, I mean. Good to think we chose right, yeah?”

“Piss off, Ron,” the Chief growled  out of the corner of his mouth,  clearly intent on his reading. “So we rubbed along; that’s all right, nothing wrong with it. Blame the refs for that, always messing about with the poor little kids saddled with ‘celebrity’ parents.” He waggled his eyebrows at his scroll in recalled annoyance before glancing briefly at his two companions. “That was along time ago, though, Justin, and besides, I’ve not seen old Malfoy in a dragon’s age  now, ‘least not to really speak with. So, Justin?” Potter  swiveled  his chin sharply about to face his Advisor, one eyebrow shooting up. “About that? I did think he droped out the picture a bit suddenly. Wondered over it, at the time. So you’re telling me now the poor old sod’s been down this same path as me—landed in the same place as I am now? That’s news. I thought he’d only  shifted over to the Unspeakables after his stint in Aurors. I’ve not heard a thing of any…any instability. No little ‘incidents’ or ‘accidents’, either. Not one word.”

“Oh, but he did,” Finch-Fletchley nodded agreeably. “And for a considerable time, Harry, and then did very well, too. Unspeakables loved him, really; couldn’t get enough,  but then his core went south fast  after a few years of doing all those Unspeakable things Unspeakably. You’ve heard about them, right? The Never-to-be-Explained Incidents the Minister forbade speaking of? All the windows blown out in the Atrium that one time; a bad show, there, very messy. That complete melt-down of the antique Muggle artifacts Weasley Senior was storing up in sub-sub-basement in the new building?” Finch-Fletchley clucked his tongue over it. “Horrible business. Had to scrap it all, bloody years of poor Arthur’s avid collecting. Pity, that. Arthur was heartbroken, as you can imagine. And then there was what  Malfoy’s  last  manky Incarcerous spell did to that arse-end Dolohov, that final  assignment before he suffered his  magical break? The wicked blighter had to be pieced back together by all the emergency staff at Mungo’s, using  magical tweezers and a great lot of the Muggle super-glue, he was so chopped  to ribbons by Malfoy’s ropes. Not that that was a bad show or anything, Dolohov suffering; bastard deserved it, but, eh.” He shrugged. “Bad show overall, yeah? Unspeakables couldn’t stand to have that bruited about, one of their own best-and-brightest practically shredding the suspects. Not done, that.”

“Ah,” the Chief nodded, wrinkling his nose and shoving up his spectacles again, as he was perspiring lightly. “No, I can see that. Shredding suspects best left to our department, I think. Still…” He shrugged, face creasing in fleeting sympathy and huffed a sigh. “Hmm, poor Malfoy. Sounds all too familiar.”

“Yes, well,” Finch-Fletchley bobbed his chin sharply. Everyone in the room took a long moment to silently recall  a few recent ‘Incidents’ of Potter’s own making. And shreddings. “That’s as may be, Harry. I know you were under pressure, but no matter, not to the point now, is it?”

“The point?” Potter rejoined sharply. “And just what is that, Justin? You were saying?”

“Harry…” Weasley patted his superiour’s shoulder soothingly. “Just…just ease up, mate. You know what this does to your blood pressure.”

“Right, right!” Finch-Fletchley hastily got on with it. “Anyway, our Luna? You do know she’s the Unspeakable’s Resident Advisor, hmm? Well, she  packed Malfoyoff on a forced sabbatical with the department’s  Tibetan brethren, the Unknowables. Told him to tuck a little of the Dalai’s Wizard’s teachings under his belt so as to hang on to  his  sanity for a bit longer. Maybe even get over it altogether.”

“Really?” Potter seemed unimpressed. “That’s nice. And, did it work?”

“Huh? Do tell, Justin. So that’s where he bolted off to, the poor old wanker?” Weasley spoke up suddenly, whistling softly through his teeth. “I did wonder. Hermione told me it was spa cure in the Alps, she did; that was the gossip going ‘round the water cooler at least. Nothing more than a spate of shattered nerves, he was supposed to have had, our oh-so-cool Malfoy.” He chuckled. “That damned Hermione.  Little fibber. I do hate it when she lies to me, straight to my face. Don’t you, Harry?”  

He turned disingenuous blue eyes on his boss.

“Shh, Ron!”  Potter only glowered, sparing him only a glance. “Right, getting on with this, Justin. I want to hear the details. All the details. Talk, mate.”

“Right, sure!” Finch-Fletchley blinked at his fellows and did just that as a silenced Weasley sat back again in his seat. . “So? To make a long story short—“

“Do, won’t you?” Potter grumbled. “Too much time wasted already.”

“Er,” Finch-Fletchley went on. “When Malfoy came back to us at the Ministry he was given a position in the Ministry’s super-secret Black Ops division first thing, handed out by Kingsley himself. Black Ops, mate, which _is_ a plum assignment, don’t you know? Like I said.”  The Advisor paused meaningfully as the Chief hummed, his direct, honest gaze searching and anxious as it rested on the Chief Auror’s constantly vaguely discontented expression. “And Black Ops is better even than Aurors, Harry, I’m telling you this now. Much more real magical engagement to be had in the field—and all  the  excitement of it; just thrilling!”

“Coming a bit strong, mate,” Auror Weasley muttered, “But—your funeral, what?”

“Er, ah! All that undercover, mum’s the word, secret-agent-y  stuff, Harry?” Finch-Fletchley, however, had thrown himself into the task of convincing an unimpressed Chrief Auror of the lovely new deal he was to receive out of his forced reassignment, though. “Bracing! Exciting! And of course—” the man paused momentously, pursing his lips as though about to present Potter a huge treat. “You wouldn’t have known about it, the Black Ops. Er, would you, either of you?  First you’ve heard of this, I don’t doubt. As Black Ops, naturally, happens to be a rumour not a soul outside Advisors and the Minister’s own office  knows a thing about, yes? As it   _is_ super-secret, directly per the Minister? You know nothing, nothing—right?”

All of Finch-Fletchley’s joviality had all at once vanished in a flash. The emotion he exuded was one of mild alarm and burgeoning concern as he looked from one high-ranking Auror to the other.

“…Guys?”

“A...hem.” Potter sucked his chin, eyes affixed to his parchment again, quite deliberately. “…Well.”

“Ahem!” Finch-Fletchley cleared his throat again, but this time in an official sort of manner.  “Chief Auror Potter? Auror Weasley? Confirm for me, do. That this is the first you’ve heard of the Black Ops department As a courtesy, of course. We cannot be having any, er, ah…leaks.” 

“Leaks Is it that, now?” the Chief Auror muttered darkly, shaking his head. “I don’t think this is necessary…but sure, sure, whatever you say, Advisor. Super-secret, then, this mythical division no one’s ever heard about.” He scowled as rumble grow in their ears; the contents of the conference  room began a slow subsonic trembling, table and chairs  wobbling on their pins. “Confirmed, certainly. I know nothing, absolutely nothing about it, alright? Nor do I fucking well care much either, to be blunt. Good old Aurors has always been good enough for me.”

“Um…thank you?” Looking appeased and more than a bit nervous as to the shivering of the furniture and fixtures, Finch-Fletchley settled back into his chair, one hand fiddling with his other scrolls. “Yes, moving along.”

“Yes, that’s it. Do move along, Justin,” the Chief Auror ordered sternly. “About our pal Malfoy? What’s he actually getting up to, banging about in this super-secret job no one else in the world knows about? Are we talking James Bond here? Does Malfoy save the world on a regular basis or what?”

“Well, he’s—” Finch-Fletchley began earnestly. “It’s, ah—oh!” He caught himself, visibly. “Er, Ron, old mate?”

“Yeah?”

“You haven’t said, just now. Whether you did or didn’t know about—”

“Ron,” Potter chided, spearing his second in command with a glare. “You git, stop looking so smarmy. Answer him, will you?”

“I’m only just saying, Harry,” Weasley looked first wounded and then knowing. “It’s supposed to be super secret, your little poncy elite gang of uber-Wizards? Classified, for-your-eyes-only, even? Hah!” He pulled a disbelieving face and examined his own fingernails carefully and pointedly, lounging back at his ease in his uncomfortable chair.  “No, really, ‘hah’.  As in what a joke; as in, _I_ don’t think so.   Merlin, everyone knows about Black Ops, even old Harry here.” He elbowed his boss familiarly in the side. “Since its inception, actually; couldn’t help ourselves now, could we? When we’re having our most mysterious cases snatched right from under our very noses?  When some rogue Wizard’s prancing about with a bow-and-arrow, shooting things up and making like bloody Robin Hood? Yeah, right, Justin. Tell yourself another one, will you?”

“Ron! Will you just!”

But nothing was stopping Auror Weasley, now he had the floor. He shoved the elbow between Potter’s ribs again and laughed mockingly at both faces turned toward him. “I mean, come on, we’re not all idiots in Aurors just because we prefer a little teamwork over some bloke’s version of ye old derring do! Archery, for Merlin’s sake! And Harry’s usually pretty deaf to the gossip. I mean, for pity’s sake, Justin, how come _I_ know of it?  What am I, the Ministry’s own brand of chopped liver? No! I’m Harry’s second, remember? I know these things.” He dropped sly wink in the furious Advisor’s direction. “Wasn’t even Hermione who told me.” He cocked a lazy thumb at his boss and best mate. “Was this one here, the blabbermouth. He told me.”

“ _Ron_! I did not!”

“You did, Harry,” his second officer reminded kindly. “But likely you don’t recall it, as you then brought down that entire shop on our suspect’s head, remember? Was Wembley-Wibber case, nothing big. Can see just how you’ve forgotten. Maybe an Obliviator got you, eh?”

“Auror Weasley!” Finch-Fletchley seemed truly shocked. “Auror Weasley, you cannot do this, not boldly—!” The Advisor gabbled open-mouthed for a moment, but made no intelligible noise. “Ngh-arggle-ack!”

“Pull yourself together, Justin,” Potter glared at him. “Belt up, there’s a chap.”

“Oh! Oh!” Finch-Fletchley was red of face and huffing. “ _Auror_ Weasley—Ron, old man! Why can’t you? I mean to say, if you don’t,  I’ll be forced to—oh, come now, can’t you simply confirm or deny? In fact, just deny it, all right? There’s a good fellow!”

“ENOUGH!”

The room rumbled again, more loudly than before. All of it, from table to carpet to swinging sconce fixture over top the long conference table.

“Harry—Harry stop that at once!” Auror Weasley sat up with a jerk and a small shout. “And why should I, Justin? Tell me that. None of us knew it was actually old Malfoy the power behind the B.O.,” Weasley added irrepressibly. “We all sorted it was some import the Minister had brought in from the ‘Mericas or something. Or a Russian bloke, maybe, but, hey? That’s a bit fresh, isn’t it,  Harry?” He finally examined his bosses angry face fully, which gave rise to an instant and visible shudder. “Oh, oh, _hey_ , Harry—don’t go there!“

“ENOUGH. ENOUGH.  ENOUGH!” Potter had lost his fragile grip on his patience. “Cease and desist, I said! You two! **Children**.”

Both of the other men froze in place, all eyes wide upon a very angry Chief Auror.

“Auror Ronald Bilious Weasley. SHUT IT. Shut. Your. Gob. Or I’ll make you,” Potter informed him.  

 “Meep!”  Weasley went deathly quiet, and ostentatiously zipped his lip, but too late to help his case.

Finch-Fletchley simply slunk deep into his chair, rubbing his nape with a nervous hand.

“Ron.”

Clearly out of sorts, his immediate superior bestowed upon his next-in-line a painfully burning glare and a severely reproving  head shake. The jittering of the room’s furnishings ceased abruptly, as if it had never occurred. Potter, however, slapped his wand against one palm in a meaningful manner.

Weasley’s gaze slunk off to the one side, and he made quite certain not to blink. The Chief paid no mind, all his attention focussed on the little matter of a pesky security breach.

“Make the nice Advisor chap not have to ask us Aurors  yet more uncomfortable questions, yes? Nod your damned stubborn noggin at our Justin, old arse,  nod it now and nod it fast, and make bloody  well certain  you  pipe down for the remainder of this meeting. Remember, if you please,   _I’m_ the one asking all the questions here. This is _my_ life we’re sorting. And this, my friend,” Potter stated grimly, pointing to his parchment roll, “is all about _me_.” Clearly  disgruntled, he resettled his robes impatiently and turned back to worried Advisor.  “Right, where _were_ we? Justin?”  

 “I—ah? Hmm?”

Advisor Finch-Fletchley was next in line for the patented killer Potter glare; he received a dismissive snort of exasperation from the Chief as well.

“Hnh! So, that’s what happened to Malfoy—B.O.? And, Justin, you’re now swearing up, down and sideways  he ’s just as brilliant as ever he was back in Unspeakables, if not better even than that? A wonder Wizard? And a simple stint in Tibet actually made that much of a difference for Malfoy? He’s all cured? Because I can’t believe it, sorry.”

The Chief gestured round the now quiet room, indicating where the curtains had sagged visibly and there were cracks in the plaster.

“You see why, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh, but better even than mere brilliant, Harry!”

Finch-Fletchley relaxed sufficiently to grin broadly, a well of boundless good-natured enthusiasm spilling over as he leant forward over his scattered scrolls to restack them.

“Oh, absolutely, Harry,” the man replied earnestly. “Malfoy was Order of Merlin material before, undeniably, but now—now, he’s bloody ‘wow’! And did he ever take to  B.O. with a whizz-bang! Bustled back into fighting evil like the bloody hammers of Odin, spouting Wandless this and Silent that and taking on all comers, all cool as an iced bean—a real pro, Harry”

“Really.” Potter’s response was utterly flat. “You don’t say.”

“I do! I really do, mate!” Finch-Fletchley assured him. “It was the bee’s knees, Harry, what I saw. That little matter of urgency we had with the Sorcerer’s Free Library and Lending Bureau—remember that one? The enchanted Muggle picture book that ate up Levi Laarssonson’s littlest  boy and wouldn’t spit him out for nothing? Well, Malfoy had the little chap  vomited up in seconds flat, no harm done. Perfectly healthy, and then he sealed the book, too, just like snap! And his easy flow with his magic—his utter command—his sheer fire-power, Harry; it’s all spectacular stuff! He’s like a whole new Malfoy, really.”

“The.” Potter winced visibly, sidetracked. “The, er, ‘bee’s knees’, Justin? Malfoy is?” He coughed, his attack of temper apparently forgotten. “Bit of an archaic term to use, that, but…you’re a real fan, then, I take it? You’ve actually been on the scene and  witnessed what Malfoy can do?”

“I have! Yes! He just—just—Malfoy? As he is now?” The Advisor  waved a spare scroll wildly as he leant forward across the polished surface earnestly, all agog with enthusiasm. “He’s the baddest of the bad, this dude, so bad he’s good, he’s cool—he’s **hot** , Harry. A real humdinger!”

“…’Humdinger’?” Potter echoed faintly. “Hum…dinger.”

“Yes! I mean to say, Harry, the bloke barely blinks an eyelid and it’s done, whatever it is the Ministry  wants or needs. Why, he’s the agent singlehandedly responsible for shutting down the entire Constantinople  dragon-napping ring, Harry. You know the one to which I refer? Not to mention completely quelling that last zombie outbreak in Old Antioch. He’s a magical  phenom now, is our dear old Malfoy. Totally in control, totally on the ball, no! Fucking always on the ball. just—just—totally!”

“Oh my,” Auror Weasley snorted. “A fan boy, Harry. We have ourselves a fan boy. Rosie told me about those. Do mind, now, it might be catching.”

“And devilish powerful in his magic,” Finch-Fletchley babbled on, regardless of the other men’s arched eyebrows and sardonic gazes. “Far more so than even before, mate, when he was an Unspeakable. Merlin, yes, he’s all that and more! Trust me, Harry, you’ll be in good hands with him. Well matched. You couldn’t possibly find yourself in a better position, never fear!”

“Impressive,” the Chief remarked, dubiously, as he discarded his own re-rolled scroll  to the table’s surface. He shrugged a shoulder, poking one finger at it so it rolled away. “I suppose.”

“Oh, good-oh, Harry!” Finch-Fletchley settled into his seat again, vastly pleased. “I’m so glad you’re finally seeing it my way now.”

Weasley, prudently, stayed silent and still as a lurking Lurcher by his Chief’s side, though he rolled his eyes quite discreetly.   

“Your way, Justin?” Potter cocked a leery eyebrow. “Hardly, but…well. I suppose that makes some sort of strange sense to me after all, if it’s bloody old Malfoy. Someone at Hogwarts once said to me we two were the ones—ah, hmm, we were the only ones alive at the time who could—huh. _Yes_.”

With a sigh, Chief Potter ceased speaking, shaking his head over some memory only he seemed to see.

“No, er—not important, sorry. Go on, then. What else can you tell me, Justin?”

Potter ignored Finch-Fletchley’s curious stare with panache.

“Harry? What is it you’re thinking of, just then?”

“Nothing—not a damned thing, Justin,” Potter shot back instantly. The carpet twitched beneath their boots, like a wild thing. “Mind your own business, hey? And  enough pointless reminiscing. That’s all well over, isn’t it? Hogwarts and all that; a hippogriff long since flown.” Flat of expression and sober-eyed, he nodded sharply to his official change-of-assignment and its jaunty midnight scrap of silk grosgrain,  calmly folding up his hands into a ten-fingered pile of patience before it. “Right, moving on _again_. As we seemed to be wasting an inordinate amount of time over a simple reassignment of personnel. Malfoy’s to be my  guide in B.O. and _you_ say he’s top-notch, to be sure…but, Justin?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“You do also swear he’s all right now? Fully functional and no hiccoughs, no…” He glanced down at his fingers, folded upon themselves peaceably. No hint of a tremor there, no, but then the wall sconces did flicker: once, then twice, before steadying. “Ahem. No nasty side-effects, weaknesses? Lingering…issues with the environs or when coping with people?”

“None,” his Advisor replied promptly, with a surge of huge confidence. “I may be just a drooling fan boy, Harry, but he’s indubitably the first-ranked, ace-in-the-hole, our main ‘go-to’ chap whenever it is the Ministry requires that particular skill set. Rock steady, in every regard. Unflappable. And he’s excellent  with it, Harry—the sort of magic he’s doing now, the high-end stuff? A real trooper. Doesn’t flaunt, doesn’t make a show of it, just does his bloody job and that ever so well. You’ll see, I’m certain. You’ll be just the same in no time at all, I’m sure of it. Hell’s bells, Harry, all us Advisors are sure of it, even Luna.”

“Really? Will I?” Potter frowned heavily at his knuckles, taking a moment to crack them. “Hmph,” he snorted, settling back into an attitude of alert ease. “That’s the thing— _I_ don’t want to. I don’t care for the idea, Justin—simple as that. I like Aurors, I understand Aurors. Aurors is my job, my life. And I don’t like this, not one bit, being cast aside just when I’m really hitting my stride here. Happy where I am, as I am, you know? So, sod off, then. I don’t want—“  The scroll before him caught ablaze with one single green-eyed glare, flaming into a cold soulless blue. ”That.”  

“…Erm.” The Advisor looked carefully away, eyes shifty. “Ah…Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Harry, you may not want it or like it, but it’s this or nothing.” Finch-Fletchley swallowed a visible lump in his throat, and met the Chief’s narrowed gaze steady on. “Minister’s said, Harry. It’s this or you go altogether. You’re a danger now, and you know it, old man. Please?”

“…Please?” Potter’s hard gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. At his side, Auror Weasley relaxed, just a smidge. “Justin?”

“We can’t afford to lose you, Harry. You know it. And all we want? All we _really_ want for you, mate?”

“Yes?”

“Is to see you happy again, and whole, Harry. That’s the real point to this, not the silly B.O. It’s for your sake, Harry. We care for you, you know we do. And Draco Malfoy’s the one who can help you make it through—the only one, and he’s willing enough. Says he owes you, Harry, and is happy to help.”

“Hmm.” Potter’s gaze went from soft to  searching. “He does? Well and good, that. But. Still, I don’t know, Justin—I really don’t. This seems a bit of a far reach. Bows-and arrows? And all the other showy nonsense I hear about? What if he can’t teach me? What if Black Ops doesn’t suit and I hate it? What if, after all this effort to make it so, you and Luna, Kings and all, I don’t come right again? What, then? Still planning to off me, then? Lock me up for being some sort of danger, Justin? Because I have to say, I just don’t trust—”

“Harry! Harry, stop that crap at once, will you? No one’s out to lock you up, you idiot git! Gods, do you even hear yourself speak?”

“Ron…”

“Look, of course you will, mate.”  Weasley leaned in to bump shoulders, his forehead quirked into quick concerned furrows. “Malfoy’s still Malfoy but he won’t steer you wrong, I’m sure of it. He’s a good sort of Malfoy now, and we all know it. Look what he did for my Hugh’s Seeking, remember? And Rosie adores his son, and she’s over at the boys’ flat all the time. She wouldn’t do that if the Malfoy’s were in any way a bad lot, Harry—and you, for one, know they’re not. So, all I’m saying here, is trust the git a little bit. Let him do his thing, work his voodoo on you, fix you up. And Harry, I’m just saying this as a bit of an extra, but our Hermione’s already briefed him; you know how she does. Won’t let well enough alone, my wife, but Malfoy’s  completely copacetic with the whole plan already. Bloody eager, even. He’s been champing at the bit to have at you.”

“What? _Copacetic_ , Ron?” Potter  elbowed off his importune mate with a  scowl, surreptitiously ignoring the part  about trustworthy old Malfoy, champing. “Merlin’s arse! You fucking loon! Where _do_ you come up with this shit, Ron? How old is that word, anyway, ‘copacetic’? Is that taken from one of Hermione’s stupid word-a-day’s? Christ, Ron!! Look, if you’re trying to convince me, I’ll admit it’s reassuring, but for fucks’ sake, don’t do it like that, okay? Use your words, mate, your regular words, alright? Just…not the mod Seventies-speak, hey? Give over. I cannot stand it,  really I can’t. And if he’s agreeable with taking me on as you say and Hermione has said he can handle it, just say so. Even though—”

Potter paused, his eyes distant.

“Even though, Harry?” Finch-Fletchley prompted quietly. “Even though…what?”

“ _What_?” Weasley blushed faintly, waving his fingers in a helpless fashion as the palpable tension in the room ratcheted upwards. “I mean, what, Harry? Hermione’s been handing out  those vintage Muggle ‘word-a-day’ calendars to everyone she knows and has been for years now! You can’t blame for being affected, harry—you simply can’t! It’s her hobby, I think; whatever. I lose track of just how many hobbies she’s got now, mater, but that’s definitely one of them and she stands over me with that frown of hers—you know _that_ Frown? It’s a doozy!—if I don’t’! That was today’s word, alright? I have to use it, in a sentence. Co-pah-set-ick. Means ‘with it’, I think. In the know, like.”  He snorted , pursing his lips. “Suits, I think.”

“Guys?” Across the table, the Advisor shifted in his seat uncomfortably, wriggling his arsecheeks against the flattened cushion; it had been quite an hour gone wasted already. His wand  pinged at  him softly, reminding him he was late to yet another appointment.  “Uh, gentlemen? Gentlemen, if we could manage to stick to the subject at hand—eh?”

“Hmph!” Auror Potter harrumphed, his expression sour. “‘With it’! ‘Word-a-damned-day!’ Doesn’t anyone have better things to do with their time? I know _I_ do! Still…I don’t quite—quite.”

“Quite?”

A speaking glance was exchanged between the Aurors, pregnant with old memories, some of them quite not good.

“…Harry?”

Finch-Fletchley, finding himself entirely unnecessary, sighed abruptly and blandly made a huge point of re-sorting his  rolled parchments into smaller piles within their leather casing. He took up a minor species of annoying off-key humming, as well, not quite  resigned to his temporary fate.

“ _I’m_ not,” the irate Chief hissed, solely for the benefit of his mate, “really so ‘with it’, Ronald. Clearly!” He glared at the third Wizard present covertly. “That’s the thing, see? Why’d you wait for Justin to do it; why not just tell me, Ron? Sticks in my throat, man. I mean it’s ever so nice of you all to clue me in, you and Hermione, maybe give me a little advance notice— _not._ I mean, my bloody feelings are a little bruised here, _mate._ ”

“Oh, come now, Harry. Don’t be like that,” Auror Weasley pleaded, but Potter was having none of it.

He curled a mean upper lip, nudging up close against his fellow Auror, the pinched-tight corner of his mouth hovering  by a blushing freckled ear.

 “Because you’ve not, none of you. Berks,” Potter spat at his mate, grimly and in an acidly nasty undertone, the damning syllable not quite disguised by Finch-Fletchley’s off-sides but steadily rising rendition of the catchy melody of the Gew-Gaw Dollies’ hit new single, ‘Gobsmacked and Gillywhacked, Over You’.

“Said a fucking word to me, all this time.”

“Harry!”

“Every damned one of you wankers are,” Potter clipped out, half-rising from his chair. “Gits! No! Out-and-out deceivers, lying by omission, saying it’s all fine, how I am, how I’ll get over it, Harry, any day now! Fucking BOSH! I’m not, am I? Liars of the first order—all you lot, Ron. All my own old friends, hah! The people I trust—my own damned kids, even! You—Justin, here, Hermione. _You_ say that, but? Hermione I can perhaps understand,  but _you_? You could have warned me this was coming, mate—what’s more, you should’ve!  Don’t fancy  one fuck being farmed out  and passed over without a single fucking word to say against it, Ron. Can’t say as I am ‘with’ any of it. Or copacetic! So, fuck the fuck off, will you please? Leave the room if you can’t be helpful, damn it. I have a life to work out, don’t you know, and your damned cajoling me isn’t helping!”

“Harry!”

“No!  NOT HELPING, Ronal! I’ve given this department the best years of my life and this is what I’m handed  in return? Lies, pap and bloody obfustication over Hermione’s latest little Muggle hobby? A bunch of words, words, words and a raft of shit about how I’ll be sure to love this job? I don’t THINK SO! You know what it _really_ is, Ron? It’s co-fucking-pathetic, is what! You bloody bastards, siccing me on poor Malfoy, making me his problem! Where do you get off on doing that?”

“Ah...’hem? Erm, well…yeah…there is that, yes. Sorry, Harry.”  Weasley flushed a guilty red from tightly buttoned collar to receding ginger hairline. He fiddled with the top two buttons of his uniform, shamefaced. “It’s not. _We’re_ not—siccing, precisely. It’s more he asked us—oh, damn! Wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Was I? No, no, I wasn’t, either. Er, _sorry_ , and please—Harry? Do be sens—”

“No.”

  


[Go on to Part 2/2 of 'Reset' ](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/349880.html)


	2. Chapter 2

[Return to Part One of 'Reset', Chapter One.](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/349688.html)...

Go on to[ Part Two](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/350143.html)? 

 The Chief stood up fully, towering over the other two men as much as he was able, given relative height differences. He shoved his specs up his shiny nose with decided snarl. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face and neck, and his hands trembled, even his wand hand.

“NO. NO, again **no**! Don’t you ‘Now, Harry’ me, Ronald Bilious Weasley! Would’ve liked a bit of head’s up a whole hell of a lot earlier in the match than this, at very least as bloody fucking _Chief_ of this department, don’t you know? You’re supposed to tell me these things—it’s your fucking job, Ron!”

He cracked a grin at his suddenly white-faced underling very briefly, but it wasn’t a pleasant thing to see. It did absolutely not a thing to stop the rain of plaster dust falling down, nor cease the conference table’s nervous shimmying.

“You _do_ follow along as to the importance of the ‘knowing’ part, don’t you? Knowledge _is_ power, Ron. Life or death, sometimes. As the one who’ll be running this bloody circus if I’m bundled off out of the picture, surely you can see how I might be feeling a tad **hacked off** right now, seeing how I was deliberately  kept in the dark? Like a fucking mushroom, Ronald Weasley! Fed shit and kept in the dark! Well! Wait till it’s your turn, _Ronald._ See how you like it!”

With a flourish of his wand to quell the renewed tremors of the furniture, Potter subsided a second time, harrumphing.

“You conniving bastards, all of you. BUT! Moving _on_ , though.”

“Yes? Harry, you ready now? Super—“ Finch-Fletchley perked up briefly, sensing a happy return to the matter at hand. Catching sight of the expressions of the two other wizards, he instantly subsided. “Oh…bloody damn. Right, then. Suppose I’ll wait.”

Nether noticed, nor cared.

“Oh, but Harry, I couldn’t.”  Auror Weasley set his chin, shaking his ginger head at his boss dolefully. “I really couldn’t, mate. Sorry.”

“What, now?” Potter’s pugnaciously set chin whipped Weasley’s way. “ _Why_ couldn’t you?”

“Nope.” Weasley  continued to shake  his head slowly, touching a fingertip to his lips and making as though he was zipping them. “Couldn’t,” he repeated. “Daren’t, even.”

“Really.” Potter’s voice was flat as a flounder. Weasley simply blinked at him.

“No. I really, _really_ couldn’t. Wizard’s Honour on that, Harry. Hermione would’ve had my bollocks through the handwringer and old Kingsley didn’t want you freaking out prematurely. He said as much to me, in confidence.”

“ **Did** he?”

A stray fireball erupted explosively upwards from the centre of the conference table, only to disappear straight through the hole it burnt in the sound-proofed ceiling tile. Two out of three Wizards present blandly ignored it; the third only blinked rapidly at the dazzling afterburn scintillating on the back of his eyelids and sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. He did, however, tug his case of scrolls back out of harm’s way.

Dispirited, Finch-Fletchley  returned to his aimless humming, ignoring as best he could the insistent pinging of the alarm from his wand.

“Oh, yes.” Blue eyes went round and deceptively innocent where they rested on Potter’s furious face. “S’truth, Harry. No lie. Not this time, at least. I swear on Mum’s pies, mate. And her casseroles.”  

“I…see.”

Beneath all their elbows and the case of scrolls the table shivered violently, down to the core. The entire surface  became  all furry, and something within the centre leaf  growled ominously at the seated Wizards. The indirect lighting from the side sconces flickered tremulously and there was a distinct and horrid burnt metallic buzz to  the air of the conference room, as well as a faint odour of  seared asphodel.

“Casseroles. _Huh_.”

“Harry?” Weasley gulped nervously. “You believe me, don’t you? Say you do, okay? I mean, I don’t want to have us two all un-copacetic now—not after all these years, Harry. I don’t.”

“Right, then. ‘La, la, la, boom-dee-aye, bring out your Goblins, girls!’” Finch-Fletchley sang out a line of his next pop song selection, a snatch of classic Weird Sisters, and diligently kept himself occupied himself with resorting his  scrolls into alphabetic groups.  Within the enlarged case, now situated in safety on the confines of his own lap. Obviously, neither of the Auror’s top two Wizards gave a flying fish if their Advisor had other, equally pressing appointments to keep.

Potter certainly did not. He was furious. He defined ‘furious’, actually. And, ominously, the flooring rippled as if to prove it, going glassy smooth and then crackling like shattered ice. The surge continued right up the walls and to the ceiling, where the remaining pendant lights hanging began to swing to and fro.

The Chief Auror made a noise in this throat, an indescribable sound which was rather frightening to hear.

Finch-Fletchley flinched. He hunched his upper body over his briefcase protectively.

“Er, Harry?” he said feebly. “Could you just? Just?”

“Now, Harry,” Weasley jumped in hastily, “none of that. Get a grip, mate. Besides, it’s a lateral career change, alright? Bloody a _lateral_. Which means you can come back to Aurors anytime after you have your little…er, issue, ahem.” He coughed discreetly, fluttering his fingers.  “Under control again. And I’ll step down and do it gladly, Harry, the second you’re ready to return.  I don’t even want this, you know that. This taking over thing, you know?”  He shrugged philosophically, throwing out his hands in an obvious plea for his commanding officer’s sympathies. “It’s a lot of pressure, being you, Harry. But, yeah, _kids_ , mate. Very dear, kids are. Cost me and Hermione a fortune, you know? Uni, and then the flat for Rosie and all. Gobs of Galleons, mate, and I don’t have them. You _do_ know how it is, Harry? Couldn’t say no, could I? Especially with the Minister breathing down my neck like that and Malfoy practically jumping up and down to get at you, all of this landing on _my_ last nerve, Harry. And Hermione—you know how she is with the budget.”

“Um, gentlemen?”

“The hell you couldn’t, mate! You sold me out for MONEY, Ronald Bilious? Fuck you!”

“No, really, hey, now. Cool it, boys.” Finch-Fletchley gave up on his humming with a huff and grimly took charge of his scrolls as they scattered away wildly across the surface of the rocking table. “Give it a rest. I’m late and the Minister will have my bollocks if this goes on much longer. Ron, Harry, if you could just—please? _Focus_? Please, I’ve another appointment in twenty, you know? And that’s not even the one I’m skiving out on right now!”

“Hah!” Potter scoffed fiercely at his very old friend, completely undeterred. “BLOODY HAH! _You’ve_ got the kids, d’you, Weasley? Well, so do I! And who doesn’t want a pay-grade increase by twenty percent when those same kids are in bloody uni? Huh? Who, now? I’m a bloody single dad, Ron! Ginny makes a bit, but not enough—never enough, and it’s hardly fair of me to ask her, all right! She’s your own bloody sister, you flaming arsehole! And I’m NOT sticking this on Justin here—don’t tell  to do it, either! And don’t dare tell me this situation doesn’t hand you an advantage, you great huge chess-playing tit, Ron, because I won’t believe it. You and Hermione never do a damned thing, never take a step  without knowing all the ins and outs of it. You’ll be happy when I shift over Black Ops, I’m sure. Happy! HAPPY, like copacetic, I mean!”

“Harry—“

“Shut the fuck up, Ron! I’m venting—let me vent!”

“Harry! Mind the chairs!” Weasley repeated, ducking as three of the extras splintered and went flying.

As did their Advisor, but again—unnoted by the other two Wizards.

“SOD. THE. CHAIRS.”

“Hey, now, hey, please…you two? No?” Completely and totally ignored by the other two as they howled  and hissed furiously at one another, the Advising Wizard blew out a frustrated breath and sprawled wearily  back in his seat, defeated, a hasty hand shield his eyes and a shield spell thrown up instinctively.   “No. Oh, sod it. I’ll have to memo them. Damn!”

 “Harry, mate!” Weasley protested doggedly, flinging up both hands. “It’s for your own good!”

“My own good?” Potter echoed, appalled. “Yanked out of my job—fucking pawned off on poor Malfoy? How can you even say that, Ron?”

“Harry,” Weasley replied sternly.  “Look to what you’re doing now—“

He gestured to the shaking blancmange quality of the general atmosphere. Where once there’d a neat little conference room, very private and polished, now there was nothing of the sort. The Ministry elves would have fits and conniptions if they caught sight of it, down to the last latest hire.

“Right now, and right here, and in a bloody meeting, Harry,, and all just because you’re having a little strop. For the love of Merlin, face the music already, mate! No one’s out to get one over on you, Harry! No one’s taking your job from you, least of all me!  It’s only that you’re a fair danger now. To all of us. Scary monsters, Harry! You know it, you goobers for brains; you’re not _that_ oblivious, Harry—never were. And we have to do something, mate! So?” He sent a fast finger jab into the Chief’s chest. “ **This** is the ‘something’, alright? Black Ops with Malfoy minding you. Take it or leave it, but! Get over yourself, already. Big bloody wanker!”

“I—you! Damn it all! This is crap!”

Potter gaped for a second, wild of eye and blushing an angry crimson.

“Harry,” Weasley repeated, patiently. ‘Don’t make me.”  He swallowed, looking as though he were sending a fast prayer up to Merlin. “Harry, I’ll Floo Hermione if you don’t stand down—you know I will, mate. And Malfoy too. Don’t. Push me, Harry. See if I won’t.”

“Oh, bloody fucking sodding horned Hades—right, then. For chrissake!”

The Chief sighed, flopping a hapless wrist, and snapped  his eyes back to the patient Advisor, who was watching them warily.

“I’m not even allow a tiny bit of relief here, Ron? Can’t even tell you I’m a bit yanked off? How is that fair, I ask you?”

“…Harry.”

“Grrr! Right, there’s that, then! All done, now—so sorry,” the Chief sneered in reply to his mate’s rolling eyes. “Well, let’s hope this whole mess is  just a breather in my life, a little fucking side journey, something we’ll all bloody look back on and laugh about later, because it certainly is one fantastically huge joke now—on ME.   **Now**! Oi, Justin? Justin, head’s up!”

“Yo!” Finch-Fletchley ceased humming, inhaled a shaky breath of relief and smiled widely at the Chief. “Yes, hi, hullo, Harry? What else can I do for you? As I’m a bit behind schedule and—”

“Shut it.”  

A finger was jabbed in his general direction;  indirect light from the bobbing chandeliers gleamed  off a pair of shiny lenses, which made them shine eerily, as would a predator’s.

“One thing you can do, and it’s a bit crucial, mate,” the Chief carried on sedately when Finch-Fletchley had.  “What’s the cover story? How are we all having this fly? Because I can’t believe the Ministry PR people are simply going to give out to the media I’ve taken a lateral career move when clearly I could continue as Chief and go for the straight up the ladder  in a few. Kings has been grooming me for exactly that for years now.  I’m supposed to be Minister, and that’s not far off.  It doesn’t work out, Justin, not for a bleeding minute, me jumping ship now, at this point. I’m the best we’ve got out there right now, wonky, Wild or not. Aurors simply can’t afford to lose me.”

“Huh,” an unrepentant Weasley giggled into this hand quietly. “Arrogant much, Harry? Problems with your confidence, old man? I don’t think so!”

“Shut the hell up, Ron! Justin?”

“Oh, that, right….hmm, lessee…how do I put this?” The abruptly unsettled Advisor shifted about in his seat, issuing a series of uncomfortable little noises and dolefully pinching at his sinus. “It’s, er.”

“You ‘put it’, Justin,  in such a way  that you are telling me  the truth, and the whole truth, nothingless, is what,” Chief Potter demanded sternly. “The whole truth and nothing less.  And make it snappy; I’m shattered and I want my afternoon cuppa. Or morning—or what **ever** the hell time it is now.”  

“It’s only eleven, but no matter. Hades in a handcart, Harry. ” Finch-Fletchley sighed heavily, slumping into his seat.

“Harry?”

The Chief sighed as well, a great heaving huff. With an inaudible flex and creak and rustle,  the contents of the conference room settled into a peaceful easy stillness  as the Chief Auror’s lips tightened and his nostrils flared. 

“I hate this part of my job, you realize?” Finch-Fletchley stuck the hand back across his sinuses, pinching them for an instant. “It’s always so…so…” “Justin.”

The man threw up his hands, growling under his breath. “So sticky!”

“Hmph.”

“And people like you always hate me for it, Harry,” Finch-Fletchley added nasally, blinking fast. “You don’t how _I_ despise that bit, Harry. It’s bloody harrowing. Can’t sleep at night. I take Potions, you know? Gin makes me, now.”

“ _Justin_.”

“Justin, mate,” Auror Weasley shrugged at him. “You might want to…er?”

“Um, uh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry, I don’t want to yank you off more than you already are…it’s just. Just—erm… _you_ may not like it. The story. In fact, it’s a safe bet to venture it might be a…a problem for you, just at first. But you’ll grow accustomed, I’m sure.”

“Here we go,” Auror Weasley mumbled, lounging back and folding his arms over his chest. The corner of his generous mouth quirked up as he lowered his chin. “Showtime. Finally.”

“Problem, Justin?” Green eyes went razor sharp and crackling with inner fire.

“Not—not a ‘problem’, er…per se. Exactly.”

“Something I won’t like, is it? Something _more_? Do tell it’s not going to be something I don’t particularly like, Justin. You know how I am these days.”

Potter’s words were rapid-fire, rebounding off the walls like Muggle bullets. He waved a casual hand, pursing his lips.  The wallpaper promptly peeled itself off all the walls with a slippery sounding rush; the fringe on the often recently restored carpet began to pipe up smoke rings. In spirals, as well. Like sign language.

“Not much self-control, what? Things I find don’t like, they go ‘poof!’”

“Harry.”

Weasley went forth into the breach again with a sigh and afast lunge forward from his seat. He carefully laid a slow hand on his commander’s forearm.

“Harry, chillax, will you? Just…hear Justin out. Alright? Listen to the man. He’s good at what he does, you know that. Jeepers-creepers, my own sister’s gone and taken up with him and that’s coming after _you_ , man. You know Justin’s all that, mate. Natural born sweet-talker. And he’s not going about any of it lightly. It’s good Advice—sound Advice. Think, Harry—just think. Please.”

“Oh,” Potter  snarled, “and that helps me _so_ very fucking much here. Piss **off** , good buddy.”

“No, really. Come on, ease up. Take a chill pill, man. Cool your jets—”

“Ron,” the Chief  huffed, shoving his frames up the bridge of his nose and pinching it, similar to his Advisor’s actions of a moment before.  “Ron, first off, I truly wish you wouldn’t tell me to take a chill pill when we’re participating in actual official conference. Or trying to participate, at least. It’s disconcerting. Second, sod the fuck off, please. You’ve had your say, and I heard you. Don’t like it, but I _did_ hear you, you twat. I’m in the midst of rescuing the remains of my life here and I don’t need your input. I know you care, thank you. It’s great, it’s super, I’m so bloody care you care so much for me, but let me handle this, okay? Now, Justin! Justin, enough deflecting and jerking me round, wasting my time. Get to the point. What’s the word? When does this start, what are the details you’ve not told me and what am I supposed to tell Skeeter, because you know she’ll be straight up my bloody arse in a blink. Speak!”

“Ahem!” Justin blanched bone-white  yet again before hastily shoving a good face on it and sitting straight up to attention. “ **No**! It’s _not_ deflecting, Harry. I wasn’t! Not at all; it’s only—ah… Well, it’s like this: Ginny and I were talking it out, just the other day? Because of the kids, you know, and you not wanting them to know the extent of your…ah, affliction,  and then to there’s your bleeding ever-loving public, you know? Which all your friends know is always there, damn them all. And they wouldn’t let up for a minute, silly arses; we knew that, too. Make your life difficult enough as it is, don’t they? Can’t have Black Ops compromised, and we can’t have you subject to Skeeter, so? So, we knew going in we had to make up  something really of human interest, harry, just  for them, to throw them all off your scent. Some reason to have everyone give you little space for a while, till you have it back together. Without it sounding like you’re wet or gone metal, or anything like. So, yeah, a story that’s …ah, both all about  human-interest and, um, er, also a bit touching-like. And between us we thought we might have leak it out  that you were finally taking little personal time off, all for yourself, by yourself. Spot of R&R, um, er—a bit of a journey of self-rediscovery. Finding your ‘real Harry Potter’ sort of show, like every other man does at about this age, yeah? Because that’s normal, Harry. You can’t get more _normal_ than that, these days.”

Finch-Fletchley crooked his fingers as he said it, pulling an expressive face.

“All the rage, Harry. I swear to you. On Mum Weasley’s casseroles, even.”

“Pardon?” Chief Auror Potter turned a totally blank face to his ex-wife’s current husband. “What, now? ‘Self-discovery’? ‘ **Normal** ’?”

“Um.” The harried Advisor  flushed. “Yes, actually. It is. Trust me, it is. And that’s just  what we’d tell _Witch Weekly_ , Harry—or Gin would, actually; it’s her show, not mine—and then let it all snowball from there. And they’ll all give you a long leash, harry, cause they love you to death, bless their little hearts. And because we all know you deserve a real life, Harry, if anyone does. To have a life of your own and ah, uh, and to maybe recover a bit after the divorce and spend some quality time with your kids, specially the boys. Remember the boys, Harry? You realize you’ve barely spoken to  James since he started in Games  and Al’s never around home when you’re over. He’s always snuggling with Malfoy’s kid, and they’re setting up shop in that little hole in the wall they’ve rented, and no one can tell me if you’ve even set foot in there once, Harry! And that’s not right! You should have a chance to, Harry; you know you should, instead of wasting your life away here, stuck in the bloody office! And of course, our little Lily. She needs you, Harry; she misses you something fierce, and I’m never going to be you, mate, and I never want to either. That’s yours, Harry—your littlest darling baby, and Gin agrees with me. Lily craves  your time and attention, especially now. She’s terribly worried over her Papa, and she wants of all things for you to feel better. A Daddy’s girl, that one.”

“What?!”  The Chief flushed  scarlet. “Lily? She is **_not_** , Justin! And why’re you bringing Lily into it? She’s hardly in need; Merlin, she’s bloody well perfect—the best of the three, Justin! Totally adjusted to the divorce, completely fine. Hell, she _likes_ having two of fucking everything, alright? Enjoys it. Here and—and there, at your place!”

“Yes, but, Harry—that’s not the point here. Point is—”

“Look, Justin, Gin and I’ve  been divorced since Lily entered Third Year. What in hell is there left for me to really recover from at this late date? You two have been married these last two years;   _I_ was your even bloody best man, Justin. My ever-loving public can hardly think I’m still—what was it now?—‘emotionally scarred’? ‘ _Unstable_ ’? **Lonely**?”

“Um, yes. Well, erm.” The beleaguered Advisor shrugged, shamefaced. “ _Harry_. Admit it, it’s a loads better story to have out there in the public ear than the Ministry releasing some guff  that we’re putting you out to pasture because you’re a walloping huge magical menace to us all, Harry! Could blow up the whole world, couldn’t you? Kill every one of us in our sleep! And we can’t very well say  you’re tagged for Black Ops, either. It’s semi-retirement for ‘personal reasons’ and to pursue ‘personal goals’—I mean to say, it’s spot-on, right? Perfect excuse, perfect out for you, Harry! Every one’s doing it these days, the  ‘self-help’ show. It’s an epidemic, Harry.”

“Look, here—“

“And hey, it might even pan out,” Finch-Fletchley rushed on. “You might even actually find someone of your own, yeah? Be—be _happy,_ Harry _._ For real, this time.”

“Happy?” The Chief tilted his chin. “Happy, you say. Right, I’ll _take_ that under advisement. What shit, Justin!”

“Personal goals,” Weasley muttered  softly, , just loud enough for his boss to take note. “’Satisfy your Inner Wizard so as to have a Happier Employee’. Oh, yes, that’s the ticket, Harry. Walk that bloody talk you give us all every year, why don’t you? It’d be about fucking time.”

“Ron.” His boss speared him with a single burning look, one which was instantly turned upon the suddenly shifty-eyed Advisor. “ _Justin_. You’re barking. I won’t do it, very simple. Now—get out.”

“Sorry!”

Finch-Fletchley made more little quotey-y fingers, sneering at them sadly-wise as he did.

“For the touchy-feelies, mate, and the, well, the whole sorry, sad-sack business. I know it sucks, rather, Harry—really, I do! But, Gin and I, we thought…and it sounded much the best option, by far. We’re not about to make a fool of you, Harry. We love you, you know we all do. Gin, especially. And you’re not exactly _ill_ , either. Not that you’re exactly _right_ , mind you, but you’re certainly not _sick_ -sick. It’s just a condition—something we all should’ve expected and planned for but we didn’t; everyone thinking it’ll all be fine, you’ll be fine, as you always are. But it isn’t, of course, and we can’t have every passing twat thinking our most powerful Wizard on record is _sick_ , for Merlin’s sake. And we can’t have them knowing you’re walking a very fine line, Harry, either. That would be bad; hell, that would be political disaster. We’d all be done for. There’d be riots on Diagon. It’s just…this story works, Harry. It’s—it’s logical, it’s heartfelt—it’s acceptable to most everyone and it’ll remove the pressure from you. The only real solution, really. And there’s precedent, too. Of course.” 

“Precedent?” Potter shot back, narrow-eyed. “Wait, don’t tell me.  By which you mean Malfoy, I assume. Poor git.”  He shook his head over it, sadly. “Poor old prat. No wonder they say—no, wait a moment, Justin! He can never have been as bad as me! It’s not possible!”

“Mmm, hmm, yes, I know. But yet.” The other man nodded heavily, as if ‘precedent’ were the killing blow to all nay-saying. “It is, Harry. He was, and now he’s better, much better. Same old Malfoy but still a great whopping lot better than that. And yes.” Finch-Fletchley nodded wisely. “ _Precedent_. Been done; everyone’s used to it. And good old Malfoy let us say he was ‘finding himself’ after it happened to him; he even went a little Muggle, Harry—really got into it, the whole shebang. But he went and got his groove back, too, didn’t he? Don’t scoff so. It works, you know. If you’ll give it even a bit of a chance to, that is.”

“Me? No, I _don’t_ know.” Potter scowled.   “Don’t care to know, either. But _you_ , Justin? _You_ can know here and now and right up front I don’t like it, any of it,” he announced. “’Finding myself’?  No, can’t say as I need to, lads. I happen to know exactly where I am, thanks. Right here and right ticked off at you all. Hacked, like I said. I’m not doing it, sorry. Not for that reason. Not a sodding chance in frozen hell.”

“But—Harry! If you’d only—“

Finch-Fletchley, sensing yet another round of imminent disaster, threw his every confiding, consoling trick at it, but to no apparent avail.

The very air of the conference room seemed to turn close-mouthed and mean-eyed; the much-abused wallpaper peeled itself down again in long snakey strips and slithered across the carpet, writhing.   

“No,” the Head of the Auror forces repeated sternly, unequivocally, his keen gaze fixed on his trusted Advisor’s face. “Positively not. Now I’m thinking back on it,  there was some stupid rumour floating around  a few years ago that poor Malfoy gave all his Galleons away to some weird, all-organic, saffron-robe-wearing  cult—and that he was only eating nuts and berries and that he chats up the bees. I’m not having _my_ kids think I’ve turned into some a bloody nutter hell-bent on searching for my own arse in a fucking metaphysical hole in the sky, Justin. Not like poor old Malfoy has been accused of. It’s ridiculous to even ask it of me, sorry. Think of something else, I tell you. Anything else, but not that.”

“Malfoy’s completely all right, Harry, as I keep telling you. Ace! ’Cept he’s not poor,” Finch-Fletchley set his chin and persisted, twirling a stray scroll  doggedly, “not by a long shot. He didn’t give so much as a Knut away to anyone. That was all our own  spin-doctoring people talking it up and then our Luna, using it  for the press on her book release interviews. You know how she writes them, on the side. Nice little money-maker, really, but that’s neither here nor there. Point is, Harry, Malfoy’s saner than I am, I bet, and saner than you, certainly, and he’s not so much the poncey hipster git, eating organic only and wearing prayer beads, either—he’s actually really relaxed and laid-back now, not like before. A really cool cat, Harry. Groovy as anything to hang out with, have a pint with. Eat pistachio ice creams with. And fucking amazing with the Wandless.”

“Sod the Wandless,” Potter muttered. “Sod the pistachios, too, Justin. _I_ can do Wandless, if I try, damn it. And I don’t particularly care for pistachio, not really. Look, Justin, if he really let that be said about him, he’s clearly mad as a March hare. If that’s the price I pay, I’m not doing any of it, no. I’ll just go mad, okay? Good with that, now. Tell the kids I’m sorry, will you? So there. Go away, then. Be off with you. I can probably manage a few more days work before I’m totally mental.”

“Not at all!” Finch-Fletchley snorted. “Come on, now—quit it! And he _is_ the right man for this job of work, Harry, this saving of your arse, and hopefully _before_ you completely lose your bloody marbles. Say what you will, he _is_.”

“Huh,” Potter grunted disbelievingly, blandly ignoring the slight tremors shaking the room about them. “Sure he is. Just like me, is he? That’ll be the day! No one’s like me, and you both know it.”  He eyed them each direfully. “I should hope.”

“Merlin’s bollocks!” Weasley poked his friend hard on his impressively fringed epaulet. “Come on, Harry, stop with that! Hermione specially said to tell you no sulking when you heard. Belt the fuck up, man. Get on board!”

It earned him a slap and a stinging hex, but Weasley only frowned and poked again, harder.

“Harry.”

“Ugh, Ron,stop yapping at me!”

“I have to yap, Harry,” Auror Weasley retorted, “because you are a twat and a half. Like I said, belt up.”

“ So you say, prick. Justin!”

“Oi?”

“ Justin, you say it’s better for me to act as though I’ve my head up my bloody arse and am going through some sort of crazy mid-life crises? With poor old Malfoy as my chosen agony auntie? _That’s_ the best you could do for me? I don’t even know, mate—I mean, _really_. I’m a bit insulted. For him _and_ for me.”

“Er….”

Finch-Fletchley went red and poked at his gathered parchments with the tip of his wand, looking much abashed.

“Look, Harry? Was the best we could come up with, sorry. Take it or leave it...I guess, your choice. Well, it’s more _take it_ , as there’s no choice. Kings is the one who handed this down and he’s adamant. You’re stuck, I’m afraid. It’s Black Ops and Malfoy or it’s early retirement, Harry—that’s the crux of it.”

“Ear—!? _Early_? Right, then.”

 “Right, thanks. Thanks a lot. A bloody fucking bunch, Justin.” Weasley earned his fair share of the angry eyebrows as well. “I’ll take it, then, and only because I must, and Kings wants it, but don’t go off thinking I won’t be remembering this cock-up when I come back, pal. You and Kings and every other wanker in the Ministry is going to owe me, Justin. Owe. Me. Big.”

 “Har—”

“Come on, Harry. Harry, _look_.” Weasley, exorcising all his options as closest male mate and ex-brother-in-law, nudged at Potter again in a fiercely fond manner. “Harry, It may be pathetic, but Harry, mate, it’s absolutely for the best, alright? We need to ensure you’re safe, first and foremost, and Malfoy swears he can do that. He swore on a stack of grimoires, Harry, up and down and sideways and Hermione even had him swear an Oath! Give it a go-round, old man—just the one. For old time’s sake, Harry, yeah? You know you’re game for it; it’ll be a lark, really. _I_ know you’re game for it, at least—and Hermione. Hermione does, too, Harry. We’ve faith in you, mate, just like always. Just—please—do it. Let Malfoy help you out. No one wants to see you crash and burn, Harry. No one.”

“ _Harry_.” Finch-Fletchley leant forward, pleading. “Harry, it’s really, honestly completely positively the very best we can do for you. We want to save you, mate; it’s our damned turn at it, all right? And we all want you to have the best there is, man. We care, see? We’re not about letting you take any sort fall if we can prevent it.”

“Hmmm….well.”

The Chief absently nibbled his wand end.

“ _Harry_.” Finch-Fletchley dared finally lay a comforting hand on Potter’s arm. “Ginny says you should, Harry. This is _Ginny_ , saying that. So…Please?”

“I….well, I,” Potter swallowed heavily. “I don’t know.”

“Please, mate?” Weasley added his own quiet question. “Please.”

The Chief visibly wavered over it, the whole question of his own much-altered future life and career.

His wand wavered too, in a neat little circle.

A swirl of heavy red wool and gold-taped ribbon ripped through the bland conditioned air of the conference room; the wallpaper scrambled back up and reaffixed itself with series of tiny snaps.

“Fine, fucking well _okay,_ I’ll try it, Ronald,”  Chief  Potter allowed grudgingly, rising and spinning away from the table with firm steady tread. “I’ll follow your idiot plans for me and Kings’s bloody interfering directives and I’ll do my sodding best at this ‘chill-axing’, if I must. I’ll go and find my head up my own arse, if it is what it is and what it takes to have my job given back to me. And so as not to kill all you lot in your bloody beds.” He snorted over that, grimacing. “ **But** , I don’t care for the idea one bloody bit and I’m saying this right now, to the both of you.”

“Oh, that’s excellent, Harry—really!” Finch-Fletchley was terribly chuffed.

“Brill!” As was Auror Weasley, though his gaze was sober as it rested on the figure of his exiting boss.

“BUT. _But_ —”

Potter paused, grim-eyed, and surveyed his fellow Wizards, having paced angrily to the door. The slow simmer of his wild magic came to an abrupt boil; he stomped his heel on the carpet sufficient to leave a permanent dent. Down through the planking beneath, and well into the layers of stone foundation.

“Harry?” Weasley ventured. “Hey? We’ve made so much progress, just now. Don’t be like that, Har—”

“No, really! Calm down, Harry,” Finch-Fletchley blanched. “There’s no need for—”

“But,” the Chief repeated and it was a deadly little hiss, and quite frightening to hear. “ _But,_ I don’t care for the idea one bloody bit. Let me say that to you a thousand times, you lack wits, you fuckers, you who call themselves my friends. Don’t either of you _dare_ be up my arse later if my bloody stupid magic goes bollocks-up and poor Malfoy and I end up killing each other! Because **I** won’t be held responsible! Don’t either of you ever  dare say a blooming word to me if I bloody well ‘find myself’, either,” he added nastily, making quote-y fingers of his own in blatant mockery of his Advisor’s earlier ones, “tossed into a cell in Azkaban, for sodding magical homicide of a fellow Wizard! Bloody Christ, I sincerely do hope Malfoy’s aware of what he’s signed himself up for!”

“Oh, for chrissake!” Finch-Fletchley buried his long-suffering head into his cupped hands. “You’re hardly going to murder anyone, Harry, not _really_.  I was never serious when I said that—can’t you take a bloody joke?”

“Now,” Potter barked, uncaring. “Right now?”

“Oh—fucking hell, here we go again,” Auror Weasley growled, attaining his feet and making his way to the exit. “There goes my nice luncheon out, I bet.”

“Now,” the Chief turned to the door, ripping it open and half stepping through. “Meeting fucking well **is** adjourned, thank you. Piss off, please, both of you. Ron, scare me up a cuppa. Justin, go sod yourself somewhere else, please and thank you. I don’t know about you two but I have some _real_ work to do before I’m bloody well booted.”


	3. ReVeal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, twisty!

See previous two parts:   
First is[ here](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/349688.html).  
Second is[ here.](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/349880.html)   
This is....a slow burner, people. Slow....burner. Keep that in  mind, do. (When you're angry with the Author, that is. Grin!) 

 

 

**Chapter Two: Reveal**

At approximately the same hour as the momentous meeting going on between Chief Auror and his esteemed Advisor, and on the southernmost Summer Porch of  Malfoy Manor, the heir presumptive  and scion of a thousand-year legacy reclined at his ease, enjoying the westerly breezes and sipping peacefully away at a tall cool concoction one of the younger, more culinarily adventurous elves had brought him.

And one for his lady friend, too, for Malfoy was not basking in the winsome zephyrs by his lonesome, no.

He was chatting with a lady friend—or rather, with one female mate in particular:  of his own age cohort, rather notable for her heroism, her rather amazingly energetically bushy hair (currently tamed fiercely into a lady-like chignon) and her excessively keen wit.

To wit, Hermione Granger. Sometimes also known as the ‘Iron Maiden’, Granger _was_ Black Ops Liaison, though technically she served under the Finance Minister on payroll.

“Hmm,” the lady hummed, leisurely examining her small but elegant Muggle wristwatch, a gift from her fond husband, the quite soon-to-be Acting Chief Auror. “I’d say it’s just right about now the proverbial shite is slamming into the blades of the proverbial fan, Malfoy. You should be receiving an Owl from Justin any moment. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I think.” Draco arched a wry eyebrow at some peacocks nearby. “Can’t be soon enough for me, is all I can say.”

“Well,” Hermione shrugged philosophically, “you know Harry. It’s not at all surprising it’s taken him this age.”

“Too long, the bothersome prat,” Draco snapped back, frowning at the peacocks. “He’s wasted so much of our time as it is. Stubborn little shit!”

“Now, Draco—” Granger began, a soothing hand flapping away.

“Don’t you ‘now, Draco’ me, Granger,” Draco sneered, elevating both his chin and his glass. He helped himself to a long swallow, one which left him blinking rapidly after. “Brrr! Entirely too much lime in that; I’ll have to speak to Dinky.”

“Mmm, it’s not so bad,” Granger mused over her own glass, fondly. “I like the lime, really. Refreshing.”

“What _ever_ , Granger—that’s not my point. Point is, Potter-the-stubborn-git and I could’ve been doing our groovy thing long since. It’s a damned shame, is what it is. I’ve half a mind to kick him in the shins when we meet up.”

“Which should be very shortly, Draco.” Granger waved a wand to summon a small bowl of peacock feed resting waiting on the balustrade. With raucous squawks and murmuring gobbles, the birds all made a beeline toward her chaise, at surprisingly decent clip despite the long luxuriant feathers of the males’ tails always in the way. “Justin has the orders from the Minister well in hand. Scroll’s been handed over, as of quarter past one, per schedule.  It’ll only require Harry’s say-so, which he should’ve had hounded out of him pretty much five minutes ago, by dead reckoning—knowing _my_ Ron. You’re all set, Draco, love. And I don’t doubt for an instant I’ll be going home to the new Acting Chief Auror Weasley tonight; you know how efficient Justin is when he sets his mind to it. Cheers for us, yes? Mission finally accomplished.”

“Cheers, Granger,” Draco grinned reluctantly, toasting her. “Bottoms up, then, darling, and I do hope you know I’m counting on all your husband’s wiles for this one. I really don’t think I could’ve held out much longer.” He glanced away, frowning slightly and ignoring the bustle of birds as Granger sent sprays of seed across the pavers. “Been a bit of a strain, to be brutal. The waiting.”

“Oh, my poor, dear boy.” With a knowing smirk, Granger cast her wand aside and leant across the space between the two loungers to provide her host with a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You know I feel for you.”

“Bugger off!” Her companion snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Must be horrible, going a full twenty years before the chance comes up to hop into your flaming purple pashes’ pants like that,” Hermione smirked. “Glad to hear  you’ll finally—hopefully—be seeing some real action in that area. I had quite given up hope for you, Draco. Thought it might fall off from dis-use.”

“It’s not that, wench!” Draco pursed his lips and sniffed loudly. “And don’t be crude; it doesn’t suit you. It’s that he’s suffering. I don’t like it. I feel it, you know. It’s not,” he blinked, wrenching his chin away again, to gaze down the long lawns to the distant field of the Home Farm. “It’s not particularly pleasant, is all. How he is, now.”

“No.” Granger folded her legs beneath and sat up straight, much like the girl she’d been twenty years prior. “It’s not that. It’s that you’re a great big softy, Malfoy, and now you’re vastly relieved, is all, and a little ticked off its taken Harry this long to accept he needs help, which is quite understandable. Not one of us blames you for it, either. But remember—”

She twitched her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Remember?” Draco echoed, like a good little boy.

“Remember not to rush him. Harry’s not fond of being pushed, my friend. ‘Bend but don’t break’ is the catch-all phrase, I think. Keep that in mind, will you? No one said your part in this will be easy. He’s likely to be quite resistant.”

Draco shut his eyes for a brief moment, the cool rim of his glass pressed gently against thinned-out lips.

“Yes, of course. I know that; not an idiot.”

“So…” Hermione jiggled her ice cubes in her glass. “You won’t even think of—“

“ _Not_ an idiot, am I?” her friend shot back, grey eyes very much narrowed. Then he snapped his fingers, and the noisy pride of peacocks suddenly found themselves chasing their bounty of seed on the farther end of the bowling lawn. “Now, a tea tray, I think, perhaps? Likely called for; a bracing brew, too. I can’t very well send you back to the Ministry tipsy as a new-hatched lark, Granger. The chaps in Finance will never, ever forgive me.” 


End file.
